


and the decades disappear like sinking ships

by leonhartous (orphan_account)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leonhartous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but she was already gone. her lingering presence becoming fleeting like the hummingbird that can be everywhere it wishes. – Aster Bunnymund and a matter of artistic perspective</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the decades disappear like sinking ships

_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_   
_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_   
_higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)_   
_and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_

**I carry your heart with me – E. E. Cummings**

The first time Aster remembers laying his eyes on her he was in a terrible bad mood.

The aussie was on his way home, waiting for the next subway at one of the old platforms at the station. The man was clearly irritated, cursing and muttering every colorful word he knew under his breath. All of this because Mr. Black didn't accept any of his paintings at his stupid high rank art gallery.

"I can't sell any of those." That phrase had stung more than Aster liked to admit. His pride pulsated red and he resisted the urge to grit his teeth. "They are…" Pitch Black was not the kind of person who used soft words, so the painter tried to prepare himself for a quite gruesome blow.

"Too plain, certainly not fit for this place."

"Plain?" The tall Australian man inquired, its and bits of anger showing on his expression. "How can they be plain when I used every color and brush I had?"

Pitch could say anything about his works, that they lacked effort and technique or even that he had zero talent, but he could never call them plain. Not when Aster always tried his best to give life to his paintings.

"And here I thought you were smarter than that, Mr. Bunnymund." The curator sighed quite tired and feigned a hurt look towards his companion. "Since you're asking let me explain it clearly to you."

"These are garbage, they are too ordinary and they lack  _meaning_." Aster's fists were trembling at the sides of his body. That was the first time in eight years – eight long,  _long_ years – that he really wanted to punch that arrogant bastard hard on the face. Pitch surely was smug thanks to that bloody gallery of his, but he could recognize an art piece when he saw one and Aster was no cheap painter either.

"Pitch, I work with you since this place opened." He took a deep breath. "This is the first time you refuse something from me." And it was true. That's why his pride was aching so much. Since when they met, the curator always took every single painting he had made and never failed to sell them. Why would he refuse them now?

Mr. Black only sighed.

"The truth is, I think you are loosing your touch." Those words made the artist's shoulders slump. "The first paintings you brought me were  _beautiful_ , works of a real master. Now all I can see is this cheap garbage." Pitch then gestured to the art pieces lying at the corner of one of the white walls.

"Both of us know you can do better than that."

Aster relaxed his fists slowly, his fingers aching because of the strength he had forced upon them. It was true that lately inspiration wasn't by his side. He could stay ours looking at the blank canvas with the paintbrush held firmly in hands and nothing came to him. Nothing. There was only the whiteness of his empty work.

And as expected of someone as stern and rigorous as Pitch Black, no half-assed piece of shit would please him.

"Sorry, mate." Aster sighed, now quite ashamed of himself. The tall man started to collect his paintings, slow and not really caring. He should get rid of those as soon as he left the gallery.

"You and your art will always be welcome here, Mr. Bunnymund." The curator turned to leave, there were more important matters at stake. "But you need to work harder."

"Work harder." The Australian tried to imitate the smooth voice only to fail miserably. "As if it was  _that_  easy."

When he left the gallery the first thing Aster did was throwing the five paintings at the nearest garbage. Pitch was right; those weren't worth a penny, what brings him to his current predicament:

"The bloody bills need to get paid." The artist wasn't an idiot, he had saved some money for a situation like this, but it wouldn't last forever. And his artistic muse probably wasn't coming back anytime soon. He could already hear his father's voice screaming inside his head.

" _You'll have no future painting! You think pretty pictures and drawings can feed your stomach, stupid boy?!"_

Being raised in a farm at the countryside of Australia was not what he could call easy, especially with his old man mocking his dream in front of the entire family as if it was the funniest joke in the world. When he finished high school, Aster left to the United States to study art without a second thought.  _Or a second glance._

If his father were here right now, he would probably have a good laugh. At least someone would have fun.

"Goddamn… I need a cigarette." The man reached for the package and the lighter inside his pocket, fumbling to take them out until he saw the no smoking sign at one of the large columns of the station. "Not my day, huh?" He sighed while placing the box back on his jacket.

Aster's green eyes started to wander, desperately trying to find some distraction to his evident lack of nicotine. It was more out of habit than anything else. He knew that station like the palm of his hand, always coming whenever he needed to get to Pitch's gallery. Always the same dirty pillars, the same old propaganda sticking to the brick walls and the repetitive exhausted looks from familiar and different faces.

Maybe he was just getting too old for this. Tired.

He was on his forties already for goddamn sake. Inspiration was bound to abandon him for some young and promising artist sooner or later.  _All artists have their time to shine, and usually it's after they are already dead_. That's what one of his teachers used to say all the way back in college. Funny thing is that said teacher used to laugh out of his own morbid quote.

"But what a shame. I don't want to die yet." Aster started to wonder, maybe if he had a mental breakdown and cut off his own ear things would get back in track. "Nah, not happening, mate." Trying to mimic one of his favorite artists wouldn't solve a thing, not to mention that would hurt as hell too.

"Bloody midlife crisis." That's just all that he needed now, the feeling of getting old and the shortage of nicotine on his system. Damn that no smoking law. Damn lack of inspiration. Damn  _everything_ …

It was peculiar - and as quick as the beat of a butterfly's wings - for a moment a flash of colors passed through the corner of his eyes and distracted him from his own thoughts and curses. Colorful, bright and vivid. Aster looked at the other side of the platform and saw a young woman reading a thick book.

She was quite exquisite, that he could tell from afar. Sunkissed skin and delicate features here and there, leaving the telltale of soft curves beneath her green blouse. It was a pity that he couldn't see the color of her eyes, even though that could fuel his imagination. Maybe they were green, just like his… Now her hair, that was  _strange_  and there was no other word for it. Colorful locks of blues, yellows and purple were mixed on the natural long chocolate hair. But, more importantly than her overall looks, she was everything he wasn't right now: young, full of hope and promises of life.

Everything he  _used_  to be.

She would make an interesting drawing subject, now if only he could have a piece of paper and a pencil… Aster was pretty sure he had bought a small notepad and a pen with him, fumbling with his pockets until he found what he was looking for. That would do for now. With both items at hand he looked at the other side of the platform again, hoping to catch a curious or attractive pose.

But she was already gone. Her lingering presence becoming fleeting like the hummingbird that can be everywhere it wishes.

Placing his pen and notepad back into his pocket with a sigh, the artist boarded the next subway train with heavy, tired steps. Flashes of green and bright colors were running inside his head, stirring something he couldn't bring himself to touch. When he finally got back home – a small, lonely flat that didn't make him remember the dry farm back in Australia at all – Aster was beyond exhausted, throwing his keys and his shoes at the corner of his living room. Sleep with its lazy presence haunting his eyes.

You can imagine his surprise when he sat down on his single bed and found himself sketching hummingbirds and unknown happy expressions, all the weariness fading while he did so.

Aster started to smile. Colorful feathers going from his fingertips to the blank paper.

**[** _someday_. **]**

**Author's Note:**

> From the series: "old and lame things I will probably never complete".


End file.
